


Inmate

by misshoneywell



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prison, Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26504722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misshoneywell/pseuds/misshoneywell
Summary: When Katniss is sent to prison for a crime she didn't commit, she finds an unlikely ally in the form of Peeta Mellark, but he isn't the boy she remembers from childhood.
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 117
Kudos: 243





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please take the tags seriously as it has dark themes and dubious consent.

“Inmate #58!”

I stare out of the filthy window of an automobile called a _bus._ I’ve never been inside of an automobile before, and it’s a luxury I’d rather not experience at all if it means being shuttled to a fate worse than death.

 _No. Not worse than death_ , I remind myself. _Don’t be so dramatic_ _._

I’m a survivor. Everdeens are made of sterner stuff than the tears that have threatened to spill out of my eyes for the past two hours of the bumpy, sweat-and-fear soaked ride to the Facility for Youthful Improvement, otherwise known as FYI.

 _FYI, I’m totally screwed_ _._

That’s the joke whispered on playgrounds and school hallways and in the privacy of your own room, when you’re not the one being carted to certain doom with dozens of other criminals.

 _FYI, did you hear who is going for a ride? Katniss Everdeen. She stole fruit from the market. FYI, she’s so dead. Hope it was worth it_ _._

FYI is a detainment center for the juvenile delinquents of Panem, where anyone between the ages twelve through nineteen are sent for their crimes—those who aren't old enough for the death penalty, but not quite young enough for the lesser punishments doled out to children of the districts. Of course, "lesser” means being lowered into mile-deep holes to scrape for resources that the adults are too large to access, hours of cleaning the dirt encrusted cobbled streets under the hot sun or picking fruit from the viper-infested fields of our district.

I once saw a little boy no more than six-years-old polishing a window over five stories high, tottering precariously on a scaffold—all because he dared to tug on the pristine skirt of a Merchant wife and beg for a scrap of food.

 _Obey_ is the watchword in Panem. Because once you age out of FYI, the punishment for your crime, _any_ district crime, can spell death.

“Inmate #58!”

“Pssst.” A warm breath is hissed into my ear, and I jump when a sharp fingertip digs its way into my side. “That’s you, brainless. Answer if you don’t want a club to the back of your head.”

“Here,” I croak, my throat unbearably dry from disuse as much as the dry heat inside of the bus.

“Pull your head out of your ass, maggot,” sneers the guard, a mean-eyed woman with a buzzed head and arms thicker than my waist. “If you want to survive the next,” she pauses to look down at her clipboard, “year of your life, you’ll learn to dig the wax out of your ears.”

I swallow at the reminder of my sentence at FYI. One year. One year without the forest at my back, the wind in my hair and a bow in my hands, or the sweet smile on my sister’s face.

 _Prim_ _._

Better me than her. Only thirteen-years-old and more delicate than black market silk, she would have never made it out alive for the duration of a six year sentence. But I’m eighteen, having had a birthday only just last week, and 51 weeks from now, if I can just hold it together and keep my head low, I’ll be out of FYI. I’ll be up for review and hopefully deemed acceptable to enter into society again when I'm nineteen.

51 weeks. I can do this.

“Answer me, maggot!”

I clench my handcuffed hands. “Yes, ma'am. I’ll be sure to clean the wax out of my ears with haste,” I reply politely. A few gasps ring out into the bus.

There goes keeping my head down.

Mean-Eyes glares at me. She’s had it out for me ever since I stepped foot on this bus.

“So you’re a smartass little rebel, are you?” the guard growls. “Shut your mouth before I wreck that pretty face of yours.” A few appraising faces of the male persuasion turn toward the back of the bus, and I flush. “You’re gonna need it where you’re headed.”

Mean-Eyes snickers when the bus starts to slow down. My breath catches in my throat when the desolate, tree-lined dirt road spills into a field, revealing a network of grey, square buildings surrounded by layers of towering chain-linked fences that are accessorized with barbed wire. In the center of the buildings is a massive dome.

“Welcome to FYI, maggots.”

The bus goes through a series of check-points before stopping at a loading dock toward the back of the facility, and I start to shiver when it becomes obvious that we’ve reached the end of our journey. Our bus pulls between two other buses that are already empty, the inmates that once occupied them already forming lines a short distance away.

I tense in my seat when a huge boy with light hair and a scar over his left eye leans across the aisle and into my face. His grey jumpsuit reads Inmate #32.

“Want to partner with me?” he suggests, his cold eyes raking me up and down. “I’m Cato.”

I cringe backward, causing my seatmate to push at my shoulder.

“You’ve heard of the buddy system,” Cato says, standing when Mean-Eyes shouts for us to evacuate the bus. He stares down at me. “You aren’t gonna last a minute in there without me, little girl.” He touches my hair with his chained hands, making my skin crawl.

I shudder when he finally moves down the aisle, following our fellow bus mates. The FYI 'buddy system’ is notorious. The concept is simple– two people come together to support each other, one supplying protection and while the other trades…whatever it is they have to give. Supply and demand. Give and take.

“Classic brawn for booty,” says my seatmate, Inmate #57. She shoves me so hard that I slide off the seat, forcing me to stand lest I fall. “You should maybe take him up on it, brainless.”

“I’d rather die,” I mumble, shuffling off the bus and onto the scorched, dry earth. I quickly fall in line when a few other guards join Mean-Eyes, and I try to make sense of the jumbled orders they’re screaming at us.

“You just might,” she mutters back lowly, bringing her clasped wrists together to run a hand across her short, dark hair. “I’m Johanna, by the way.”

“Katniss,” I reply absently, taking in my surroundings. I stare off to the left, where a guard has a girl pressed against the building, his hand running down her side. I have a terrible taste in my mouth. “Katniss Everdeen.”

“Well, Katniss fucking Everdeen. You’re a real chatty girl, aren’t you?” I flinch when a man with heavy, black boots, thick eyebrows and furious eyes stops in front of me. His badge reads _Officer Thread_. “And you think you’re above the rules. Think you’re special? Someone gave you a pass, huh?” He reaches out and roughly yanks on my braid, and I try not to yelp with pain. “So special that you don’t even need orientation, I bet.”

It’s my braid. I should have cut it when I had the chance.

I was warned by my FYI representative that it would be best to shave my head before they did— to just accept the idea of conformation. To make that first step of obedience. Hair is a luxury at FYI, and one that is earned through time and good behavior.

But I just couldn’t do it. I could still feel my mother’s gentle fingers in my hair as she patiently plaited the strands, and the comforting weight of the braid on my shoulder kept me sane all the way up to being booked into the system.

When it was my turn for 'grooming’ at the FYI arrival station, I balked.

* * *

_“Sit down,” the guard said coldly, gesturing to a swivel chair. A dirty mirror revealed my terrified expression, my hand clutching the bottom of my braid._

_“I-I” I stared at the razor. My new jumpsuit itched terribly. Everything smelled. I could hear crying and the buzz of razors in the air._

_“Don’t fucking think. Just do what I goddamn say.”_

_I took a deep breath, and an alarm sounded. A robotic voice intoned that all available security was needed at the front of the building._

_“Shit,” the guard said, dropping the razor onto the counter in front of the mirror. “One of you little bastards always has to fight back, don’t you?” She looks back and forth from me and the hallway where the freshly 'groomed’ girls with shaved heads are lined up to go outside and load the buses that will take us to FYI headquarters. “Just go. They’ll deal with you at HQ.”_

* * *

I should have never let it get this far, and now I’m about to find out what it means to be ‘dealt’ with by what appears to be the head FYI guard.

My heart drops when Thread pushes me out of line and marches me toward a set of doors that leads into the facility. Where we’re headed completely bypasses the set of steps that lead to the dock, where lines of other inmates are already filtering through.

Dread rises. “No, I-”

He stops and glares at me. “What the hell did you just say to me?”

Someone steps out of line, a boy who offered me a hand when I tripped onto the bus when I was first picked up from my district. He has kind eyes.

“Sir. She didn’t mean any disrespect,” he says, holding his hands out in supplication.

“No?” Officer Thread asks mockingly, stopping in our tracks. He pulls out a firearm from a holster at his side. The other guards, including Mean-Eyes, smirk at each other.

My stomach rumbles in fear, but no. Surely he wouldn’t-

The gun goes off. The boy drops. I turn and throw up.

“Let’s just get the ball rolling, then,” Thread says calmly, dragging me behind him.

I look back and meet Johanna’s eyes, but she just glances away. Any sympathy or commiseration I was searching for is lost. A few faces are scared, some are accusing, but mostly all I see is relief.

They’re just glad it’s not them.

The last face I see before the door shuts behind me belongs to Cato, a knowing sneer on his face.

“See you soon,” he mouths.

I’m completely numb as Officer Thread drags me down a faded yellow hallway, a few curious eyes of staff members and errant guards regarding us as we breeze past. I guess it’s not normal procedure for an inmate to be haunting these halls.

There are maps on the walls that appear to be blue prints, and a telephone mounted by a window that leads to what looks like a clinic. I eye it longingly, fantasizing about picking up the receiver and calling my mother and Prim.

Not that our phone has ever been in proper working order. The power in the Seam is spotty at best, and the phone only ever rings to deliver bad news. I would know— I picked it up myself when FYI called to deliver my sentencing date.

 _All this for a piece of fruit_ _._

“Don’t even think about it,” Thread growls, catching me eyeing the phone. He picks up his pace, and my shorter legs struggle to keep up. I’m already a little weak with hunger and exhaustion, but it’s nothing I’m not accustomed to— I can go for days without a proper meal. “If you’re even caught breathing near a phone, or these back hallways, _period_ , you’ll be shot dead on sight.”

I nod wearily. I have no fight left in me.

We take a few turns that make me dizzy, and then we’re approaching a set of reinforced steel doors that positively vibrate from the noise resounding behind it.

“Home sweet home,” Thread says, a grim smile on his face. He pulls something that looks like an air gun out of one of his holsters and quickly injects me in the arm, causing a shooting pain that runs all the way to my shoulder blade. “That’s what I like to call 'tagging the rats.’ In case you get any bright ideas of escaping,” he clarifies as if I’m an idiot. “Or breeding with other rats.”

I’m barely listening to him, though, because my mind is on the unbearable noise beyond the door.

“Wait,” I hear a woman say, slightly out of breath. Her name tag reads _Miss Trinket. S_ he has a bedroll in her arms. “Romulus, this is completely unorthodox. This girl needs to be sent through orientation. She-”

“Does it really matter, Effie?” He sends a bored look her way. “Trust me. This one needs to learn a lesson about who is in charge. Or have you already forgotten your lesson about misplacing trust in these pieces of shit?” He eyes her neck, where a jagged pink scar wraps around her neck.

Her eyes shutter, and just like that, I know I’ve lost any semblance of an ally in this woman.

“Just do the proper paperwork,” Miss Trinket mumbles to him. She thrusts the bedroll into my arms without looking at me.

“I have an idea,” he says. He shoves me toward the woman, and I stumble. “You take her inside since you’re so soft for these brats.” He takes out a thick set of keys and goes to work on the intricate lock system. The door opens, revealing a caged walkway that has another door at the end. 

“Wait-” the woman protests, but Thread is already pushing us toward the walkway.

She sighs and presses on a wall panel, and the second door clicks open automatically. The noise is deafening when we emerge into another caged box.

What lies beyond the box, however, is the heart of FYI.

The enormous area is circular and domed, and as far up as the eye can see are cells with barred doors lining the walls, much like the inside of a beehive I once cracked open to steal the sweet honey within.

Except inside this room, there isn’t honey. There are hundreds, maybe _thousands_ of inmates, and most of them hardened criminals by necessity if not by nature. And they’re not locked up behind cell doors. They’re walking around, free. They’re lounging against the railings. They’re playing games with dice at battered cement picnic tables. They’re picking at the bones of what looks like roasted birds. I even see couples kissing and writhing in corners.

 _FYI, I’m fucked_ _._

You don’t last the week at FYI unless you’re a ruthless animal— or the buddy of one. Horror rises when I realize what I’m going to have to do. I’m 5 foot nothing and only moderately clever on my best day. I have no strength or special skills to survive in a place like this. Maybe in a forest with a bow I’d have a chance, but inside a place like this, I’m easy prey. My choices are limited, and my future is looking bleak.

It dawns on me that it’s gone almost silent in the dome, and I flinch when I realize that I’m now the center of attention.

“Fresh meat!’ I hear someone shout, and I want to drop through the floor.

"Pssst, little girl.”

“So pretty.”

“Look at that _hair_ _.”_

MIss Trinket is already reaching for a button on the side of the cage, and I look up at her in a panic.

“Wait- I. What do I do?” I stare at her with imploring eyes. I don’t want to beg this woman for anything, but I’m desperate. “Where do I sleep? What do I _do_ _?_ ”

She looks everywhere but at my face as she takes out a key ring and unlocks my handcuffs. I’m shocked at the lack of worry on her end, but then I see Thread staring at us impatiently back down the walkway.

“I’m going to give you some advice,” Miss Trinket says lowly. “Normally I wouldn’t, but…” I wait for her to finish, hungry for wisdom. “You’re a pretty girl. I’d find the biggest person in the room, and—have you heard of the buddy system?”

I gape at her.

She steps back into the walkway, the door shutting behind her. I see her conflicted expression through a small glass panel right before the door to the cage _whooshes_ open.

I inhale and move into the center of the hive. 

Catcalls ensue. Disdainful looks come from girls with dead eyes and make-shift dresses made from remnants of what was once a regulation jumpsuit. A group of guys with sloppy, matching neck tattoos shoot furtive looks my way. I can tell that I wouldn’t care for their discussion.

“How’d the fresh meat get away with that hair?” a girl hisses from a few feet away. She looks up at boy with muscles the size of my head. “Get it for me,” she pouts to him, her hand running down his chest.

I exhale sharply. I’m going to piss myself any second now.

A shadow falls over me. 

“Hey, girl,” rumbles a boy twice my size in height and weight. His brown hair reaches the top of his shoulders. “I’m Blight.”

Right. That’s a heck of a name. I squeeze my bedroll to my chest and cast a longing glance behind me, but I blink when I realize the caged entrance is gone. It must collapse into the floor. Or the wall?

I’m pulled out of the science of it all when the mountain in front of me grabs my arm. “Are you listening to me?” he demands. I jerk away, and his eyes flash. “I said, you’re mine now. You don’t have to worry about a thing, sweetness.”

“Uh,” I stammer, taking a step back. I feel a million eyes drilling holes into me from all directions. Where are the guards? “Thank you, but I’m going to pass.”

“Oo-ee!” a pale boy chortles with dark hair that hangs to his ears. “She’s gonna take a _pass_ on you, Blight.”

Blight flushes darkly when laughter rings out around us, and his large hand makes a fist at his side.

“I don’t think you heard me right,” he says with slow menace. He takes a step toward me, and I realize I’m quickly running out of space before I will inevitably land against a group of cackling people behind me. “I’m your new buddy. So get your little ass over here and gimme a kiss.” He smirks. “Soften me up, girl.” The smirk fades. “Because you’re pissin’ me right off.”

My breath comes out in panicked little pants, and I lift my eyes above his head, searching in vain for escape. 

And then my eyes land on a face I haven’t seen in five years. One that I never in a hundred years thought I’d see again.

 _FYI, did you hear Peeta Mellark killed his mother_ _?_

Time stops as we regard each other. The jeers and laughter fade. The mountainous Blight disappears. It’s just Peeta and I, twelve-years-old, and he’s tossing me a loaf of bread in the rain.

I never believed the rumors about Peeta— that he was a psychopath who chopped his mother into tiny pieces for no reason. The gentle baker’s son that I’d known in passing since we were five would have never done such a thing. Besides, everyone in the district knew his mother was an abusive witch. As far as I was concerned, the world was better off without her.

I never had much hope that sunny, artistic Peeta, the boy who iced the fanciful designs on his father’s cookies, had made it to maturation inside of FYI. In fact, it was the memory of a thirteen-year-old Peeta being hauled away by FYI agents that helped me make the already-easy decision to take the fall for Prim when she stole that fruit from the market.

I was so certain Peeta Mellark was dead by now that I never once considered what it would be like to see him again.

But then again, it’s not really him I’m seeing right now. It’s clear that in the place of the boy I once knew is someone else entirely. Even from my view from below, I can see that the boy leaning against the railing of the second level has changed.

He’s older, for one. Taller. That’s a given. The once rounded planes of his face have given way to sharp cheekbones and a cut-glass jaw that is intensely defined. His once kind blue eyes are two narrowed flints of stone that appraise me and find me lacking. His blond hair is shorn close to his head—not quite buzzed, but the waves and curls that I know would spring forth if only given the chance to grow are suppressed by their lack of length.

And he’s _big_. His arms are crossed over his chest, straining against a plain white shirt that is most definitely not a jumpsuit like mine. His chest is broad. There’s an overall air of _muchness_ to him, a confidence that is hard-earned. And, oh. The scars.

The scars are intimidating. And heartbreaking.

I don’t know this Peeta Mellark. And from the way he’s staring at me, I don’t think he wants to know me, either.

“I’ve had it up to here,” growls Blight, reaching out to push me. I suddenly find myself on my backside, the bedroll spilling out of my hands. I stared up in shock. Snickers and cheers ring out when he crouches in front of me, and I feel like I’m drowning.

I close my eyes and decide to just let it all go. I’m toast.

“Stop.”

It grows quiet, and I open my eyes at the sound of the familiar voice, now deep with age. 

Everyone is staring at Peeta. Including me.

Blight stands and turns to address the insouciant boy leaning over the railing. “Stay out of this, Mellark.”

A door creaks open in the silence that follows Blight’s warning, and I see a group of my bus mates standing at a doorway in the distance, their mouths wide with shock and fear. I have no pity or sympathy for them. I’m going through my own crisis right now. I turn my attention back to Peeta, who is looking down at Blight impassively.

“Are we fighting?” Peeta asks him. I stare at a scar that starts at the corner of his right eye and extends to his chin. It doesn’t detract from his looks.

A chorus of shocked whispers explode around the dome, and Blight turns a dark red. “You’d fight me over this piece of ass?” he returns in disbelief, gesturing toward my sprawled form. I’d be insulted if I wasn’t so terrified.

“You mean, my piece of ass,” he corrects him, jumping the railing. He walks over to us, and I’m living in a surreal moment where Peeta Mellark is standing in front of me, blocking me from Blight’s view. “This is _my_ buddy.” He turns and looks down at me. “Nod your head.”

I make a split second decision. “Yes,” I say quickly. “I-”

“Don’t speak,” Peeta says, and my mouth shuts so hard my teeth click together. He turns back to face Blight. “All clear?”

“All clear,” Blight says between gritted teeth. “My mistake, Mellark.”

And then, just like that, he walks away. He grabs a girl with hair that swings in her eyes, dragging her by the elbow up the ladder-like staircase that runs through the center of every level of the dome. I don’t envy her fate.

But then again, mine is iffy as well. Because Peeta is staring down at me with flared nostrils, one hand extended.

“Get up,” he commands. I take his hand. My fingers tingle at his touch, confusing me. He leans down and grabs my bedroll, maintaining his punishing grip on my hand. He leads me toward the stairs, and I feel like a battered toy as I follow him, completely dazed. I pass Johanna, who stares at me with wide-set brown eyes.

“I’m in cell 622,” she tells me quickly, eyeing Peeta warily. I can’t help but notice that in addition to a bedroll, she and the other new arrivals are clutching a sack of items that I didn’t get. Missing orientation was a blow. “What about you?”

For a moment, I want to kick Thread in the face. Somewhere out there, I have a cell with my name on it. But then, I think, this would've probably happened anyway.

“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly as I’m pulled toward the staircase. “I’ll find you.”

“210,” Peeta says.

“Oh,” I reply awkwardly, as we climb to the second level. I quickly realize his room is in a prime location. Inside a building that is a circular dome, there’s basically zero chance for any level of privacy. However, Peeta’s room is located right behind the staircase that leads to level three, giving a modicum of relief from prying eyes.

He pulls a key out of his pants, and I raise my eyebrow in surprise. He catches me staring.

“It doesn’t keep out the guards,” he says, voice curt. “Not that they come around often.” He yanks open the door and motions me inside. “But it’ll keep out the other inmates.”

I walk inside, and the door shuts and locks behind me.

The cell is small, but bearable. A few shelves line the left wall. A medium sized, cot-like bed juts from the right-hand side of the room, and a small sink and toilet is recessed into the back wall. Not very private, but I try to tell myself that it could be worse. I don’t know how I’m ever going to use the bathroom in front of Peeta Mellark, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

He takes the bedroll out of my hands and unravels it on top of the cot before placing the cell key onto one of the shelves. Then he turns to me.

“Take off your clothes,” he says shortly, reaching up and grasping the neck of his shirt. He pulls it over his head, reveals a body that he most certainly never had when he was twelve.

I stare at him. “What?”

“Take.” Off goes his pants. “Off.” His shoes are next. “Your.” Goodbye, socks. “Clothes.”

He’s standing in front of me in blue boxer shorts and my mind is racing. Are they regulation underpants? They can’t be. Mine are plain cotton. They’re boring. I have on a plain white bra they threw at me in the arrival station. I don’t even think it’s new. I’m-

“Katniss,” he says, and I jolt at my name on his lips. He looks…disgusted. Furious. “What are you doing here?”

“I stole some fruit,” I say idiotically.

“Jesus.” Peeta stares at me, and then he barks out a laugh that is humorless at best. “Keep that to yourself.”

“Why?”

“People who steal fruit don’t last the week,” he says with brutal honesty. “It’s the murderers, rapists and psychopaths that dominate here.”

“That’s why I have you, right?” I say impulsively, and he gives me a blank look. “I’m sorry.” I bite my lip. “Peeta, I didn’t mean that. I’m grateful-“

“Don’t be grateful,” he snaps, stepping closer. It’s hard not to look at his sculpted body. “This isn’t a charity.”

“I know,” I say, dismayed. I cross my arms over my chest. “I just-“

“I really don't like repeating myself.” I hear movement outside of our cell, and Peeta sneers menacingly at someone behind my shoulder. I start to turn my head, but Peeta grabs my chin with fingers that are surprisingly gentle, a sharp contrast to his black mood. “Learn to ignore them,” he warns me.

“Are we having sex?” I ask him, my lips trembling. But I already know the answer. I’ll do anything Peeta Mellark wants as long as I can stay in this cell, away from the monsters that lurk outside. Because they _are_ lurking, not even pretending like they’re walking by Peeta’s cell to do anything but spy on us. To take a look at the show inside.

This is my life now. But at least it’s not Prim’s.

“Do you know what the buddy system is?” Peeta asks, crouching in front of me and untying my shoes.

“Yes,” I whisper, sitting on the edge of cot when he puts pressure on my knees.

“Then you know,” he says, pulling off my shoes, “how this works. Clothes off.”

I unzip the front. I stand and he helps me out of it. We’re both in our underwear now.

He unhooks my bra expertly. “You’re not very big,” he says flatly.

My olive skin burns brightly under the harsh lights of the cell. _It’s daytime_ , I think. This isn’t something you do in the daytime.

“But you are,” Peeta continues, “and always have been…” He stops and pushes me down onto the cot, pulling his undershorts off before hovering over me. His cold blue eyes rake over my face. “The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he finishes, almost resentfully. And then he kisses me.

I jerk back. “I threw up earlier,” I tell him, my heart racing. I feel like I’m in a very strange dream that I can't wake up from. 

His lips pull to the side, the closest I’ve seen of a smile yet. “I don’t care.” He tugs my underwear down my legs. “Katniss, we’re going to know every inch of each other. We’re only allowed showers twice a week,” he says bluntly, biting my collarbone. “There’s no more politeness. Not in here.”

“Do you have any other…buddies?” I ask, breathless when his hand reaches between my legs. No one has ever touched me there before.

“No.” He watches my face. “But I’m not a virgin. I’ve been with girls here. A lot of them.” His finger flicks my clit lightly, and my eyelashes flutter. I try to disregard the stares that I know are focused our way and accept that is my new reality. It’s Peeta, or the Catos and Blights of the world. “Are you a virgin, Katniss?”

“Yes,” I choke out, twitching when he eases a finger inside of me. It pinches when he adds a second, but it’s not unpleasant, especially when he closes his lips around my nipple. I’d probably enjoy it more if I wasn’t in jail and in front of an audience, but his fingers and mouth are so skilled that I’m wet anyway.

“So,” he sighs. “I’m your first.” This he says in a way I can’t identify, but when he pushes into me a moment later, he’s so hard that I know he can’t be disappointed with the news.

“Peeta-” My head lands violently back against a thin pillow, and a bead of sweat rolls down my temple.

“Fuck,” he grunts, his head falling into my neck. “You feel-” He slides out and then back in. “ _Ah_ , god.”

“Oh,” I gasp, my eyes watering at the fullness of him inside of me. It’s not unbearable, but it’s not comfortable either.

“It’ll get better,” Peeta promises me, his voice rough like gravel. His hands are braced on either side of my head, and he leans down to kiss me sloppily. “Wrap your legs around me.”

I obey, and he rewards me with a hand that slides down to work at my clit with nimble fingers, and I can’t believe that I’m going to come my first time. Noises that would have normally humiliated me pass my lips, and Peeta seems to revel in the sound. A shallow orgasm racks my body, and he picks up his pace.

“Um,” he groans lowly, thrusting into me hard as he loses control. His jaw clenches, an expression of tortured pleasure on his face. I can’t believe I’m seeing Peeta like this. “Oh, I’m- _oh fuck_!” And then kisses me deeply, one hand cupping my face with startling sweetness. “Damn you, Katniss,” he mutters into my lips.

He pulls out and collapses beside me after he finishes, and I stare up at the crumbling white ceiling of our cell. I just had sex with fellow inmate Peeta Mellark. His cum is sliding down my thigh.

“Oh,” he says, reaching over me to grab his shirt from the floor. He cleans me first before taking care of himself, and I’m embarrassed at the blood and wetness on the white material when he finishes, but then I let it go. Like Peeta said—there’s no more politeness.

I briefly worry about pregnancy, but quickly remember that the tracking implant I was injected with is also a form of birth control. I mentally check off one small but very important box from my list of concerns about the next year at FYI as Peeta's…buddy.

I hear applause and catcalls somewhere behind us, and I flush with shame.

“Ignore them,” he says harshly, pulling a blanket from the end of the bed over my body. He grabs my chin and looks down into my face, hovering over me. “You have to toughen up,” he tells me. “No other choice.” He leans over me and runs his hand under the mattress, and something shines between his fingers. I’ve only just identified it as a razor blade, alarm running through every system of my body when he pulls me up by the shoulders, the blanket slipping down perilously close to my breasts.

His hand winds into my braid, and then with a swift sawing motion, my hair is severed at the chin.

He calmly stands and walks to the front of the cell, completely naked. The dome is silent as he wraps the remnant of my braid around one of the bars and tucks it into a knot before straddling my body again. I’m speechless.

“You probably hate me right now,” he guesses impassively. I don’t know how I feel. I’m still in shock, I think. “But that was making me a target,” he says, speaking the words into my ear. “And if I’m a target, so are you.”

I stare up at him.

“We’re in this together now,“ Peeta says, his fingers running through my shorter hair. “Nod if you understand.”

I nod.

“Are you sore?”

“A little,” I admit.

"I’m going to fuck you again,” he tells me, easing the blanket away from my body. “They need to see.” I close my eyes when he slides a hand down my side. “Everyone has to know you belong to me.”

He lips touch mine. It’s almost sweet.

I open my eyes. “Okay.”

He nuzzles my neck. “Katniss Everdeen,” he says, something a little like wonder in his voice. His eyes are bright blue and feverish. “I never wanted to see you again.”

And then he pushes into me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss struggles to adjust to her life as a prisoner, and Peeta gives her a dose of tough love.

I’ve been at FYI for a little over a month, and I’m still no closer to understanding Peeta Mellark than I was when I first arrived. Instead, I am an expert on the shape of his mouth, the touch of his hand between my legs, and the way his hard body fits over mine. But his mind– it is still a mystery, dark and deep.

I can feel him staring at me as he peels away at a cube of wood with a decidedly forbidden paring knife, but I’m too self-conscious to hold the eye contact. I train my gaze on the page of a tattered paperback in my hand, a luxury item that Peeta came to blows over last week when he noticed the longing looks I was casting toward the boy reading it.

Hail, the buddy system.

I reach for my braid, a reflexive gesture borne from a years-long habit, and my fingers catch air instead. My eyes drift over to the knot of hair still wound around the bars of our cell, a sign of my submission, and I stare back down without comprehension at my book.

There’s a creak as Peeta shifts closer to me on the bed, and I close my eyes when his fingers touch my hair.

“It’ll grow back,” he says gruffly. 

“I know.” My voice is low, rusty. We don’t speak much.

Peeta grunts. “Then stop sulking over it.”

“I’m- I can’t believe you said that.” The book drops out of my hands, landing on the floor. “I am _not_ sulking.”

“Aren’t you?” He looks at me, bored as he picks up his knife and cube again. I can see a shape starting to take form within the square, but I can’t quite comprehend what it will be beyond its current state. I watch him, his hands slow and steady, and I can feel my emotions rising with every curl of wood that falls away from his carving.

“I don’t care about my hair.” My voice lifts to a high whisper. Even now, all these weeks later, I’m scared to draw attention to myself, the desire to fade away into an invisible shadow stronger than ever.

“You’re upset,” he observes, his lashes fluttering closed in a slow, unimpressed blink. “Get the fuck over it.”

I forget to be timid.

“Of course I’m upset.” I gesture around us, to the sterile walls, to the bars on the doors, to the center of the dome beyond -the Hive- where our fellow inmates reside. “I can’t stand it here. I’m going insane. I’m lonely. I miss my family and the sun on my face.” I stand up and pace. “I’m scared out of my damn mind, and I’m always, _always_ on edge.” The words tumble out of me, gasping and a little hysterical. “And you think I’m sulking over my _hair_?”

He calmly places his knife and wood carving on the floor. “That’s the most you’ve said to me in weeks.”

My forehead furrows at the unmistakable glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

A frustrated sigh escapes. “You are- you’re _maddening_.” I sit back down, lean over and pick my book back up. I open it, intent on ignoring him.

Peeta nods. Hums. Considers me for a few minutes.

“How’s the book, Katniss?”

I frown at his silky tone. I can’t keep up with his mercurial moods. “It’s…okay.”

“It’s upside-down.”

I throw the book at him, and he laughs, easily grabbing it mid-air. I’m caught off-guard, because the sound of his laughter is…beautiful. Familiar. And rare, like maple candy in summer.

His eyes darken when he takes in my expression, and he throws my book toward the end of the bed.

“C’mere,” Peeta commands, pulling me into his lap. I follow willingly, because I’m restless, and there’s so few things to do but this. And I’m weak, because I crave the human contact so, so badly.

He kisses me and pulls at my clothes, what little there is. I’ve taken to adopting the style of so many of the girls here– a dress fashioned out of what was once a jumpsuit. It’s comfortable and lightweight in the often sweltering heat of the cell. And for Peeta, it’s easy access.

Peeta frees himself from his pants with a quick unzipping, shoves my underpants aside and pushes up into me, and for a short while, my mind is curiously blank except for the feel of him all around me.

After, he shocks me by pulling me down beside him on the bed. I’m facing toward the wall, Peeta’s larger body curled around mine like when we sleep at night, almost touching but not quite.

“I liked it,” Peeta says suddenly, voice low like gravel. He touches my hair again, like before. “Your hair…I always liked it.”

“Yeah?” is all I can think to say, my eyes heavily lidded. It’s late in the afternoon, too early to sleep, but I can feel myself being pulled toward a nap before the pre-dinner mayhem of chow hour in the Hive.

I feel his nod against the back of my neck. “You used to wear it in two braids,” he says.

I don’t know how to respond to this almost-sweet Peeta, so I don’t. And I fall asleep, the rhythm of his breath on my shoulder and the dull drone of voices echoing from the Hive already disturbingly familiar, lulling me into oblivion far too easily.

* * *

  
“Wake up,” Peeta says, nudging me hard. “Look alive.”

“Ow. I am.” I scowl at him and shift on the uncomfortable cement of the bench seat. I rub my shoulder, because he doesn’t know his own strength. Or maybe I’m just sensitive.

“Uh huh.” He raises a pale, skeptical eyebrow but doesn’t comment further. Instead, he scans our surroundings from top to bottom, ever the watchful one, taking in the girls waiting in cells for their buddies to the guards who stand in a bored, careful distance away from the rations table. “I’m going to grab us some food. Stay put.” Peeta touches my shoulder briefly, right in the place I rubbed moments ago. I jerk away and his face levels into the blank mask that I’ve grown accustomed to.

“I know how it works,” I say, sounding sharp even to my own ears. I woke up from my nap in a terrible mood. I dreamt of Prim, and my sunny meadow back in Twelve, and Peeta. He held out a dandelion with a charming smile. Giant, multicolored bubbles floated in the sky above us while we had a picnic. We were happy.

Waking up to Peeta’s dispassionate expression was a bitter reality to face.

“Stay here,” he repeats like I’m an errant toddler, crisply turning on his heel and striding toward the fray of boys and unfortunate girls that don’t have a buddy to elbow their way into the food line.

Chow hour works like this: two times a day, small boxes are wheeled into the Hive containing regulated, nutrient-rich food of the mostly tasteless variety. But food is food, and though in theory there should be enough for everyone, there is no one who bothers to police the aggressive inmates that come back for seconds, thirds, or even fourths.

In short, it’s utter chaos.

A stab of guilt pricks at me while I watch Peeta disappear through the rowdy crowd that surrounds our dinner. I’d like to think that I could easily make it in and out with a box of my own, but I’ve seen eyes gouged out over one of these ration boxes before.

“Hey, bitch!”

I turn my head in surprise. With the exception of my quasi-friend Johanna, no one ever talks to me, not since that first day when Peeta claimed me as his.

A solidly built, attractive dark-haired girl sneers at me. “You think your shit don’t stink, huh, Princess?”

I look around, inexplicably seeking help where there is none. Everyone who isn’t scrapping for food is watching with thinly veiled interest, making no move to interfere from the safety of their tables and cells. And why would they? This is grade-A entertainment. 

_FYI, I’m screwed_.

“You listenin’ to me, bitch?”

I turn away and stare down at the cement tabletop, focusing on the countless initials and crude comments that are engraved there. _Lydell sucks cock_ , _NP + GB_ , _Pax was here_ …

“Don’t you dare ignore me.” A sharp, painful tug on my hair causes me to yelp, and I find myself tumbling backward off the bench and onto the floor. Sneering Girl straddles me and produces a small knife, and I freeze in fear when she slides it teasingly over my cheek. “Maybe I’ll give you a scar to match Mellark,” she taunts, the words sing-song. I focus on her crooked bottom teeth and start to pray.

“What the hell are you doin’?” a deep voice rumbles, but it isn’t Peeta. It’s a boy I’ve seen before, his dark eyes following me when he thinks Peeta isn’t watching. “Shit, Clove. Mellark is gonna…”

“Someone’s gotta take them down a peg,” Clove pants, her eyes glinting with a mean, psychotic light. I struggle to stay perfectly still under the blade of her knife. I’m not particularly vain, but I don’t want to die. “You’re bigger than Mellark. C’mon, Marvel. Stop being a little pussy. It’s our turn-”

I feel a sharp sting against my cheek before the weight of the girl disappears from me. I blink as she is flung as easily as a rag doll a few feet away, landing with a pained cry on the unforgiving floor. The surrounding crowd scatters away from her, parting like the sea. No one helps her.

I blink up at Peeta, whose eyes have gone positively black, the fat pupils eclipsing the familiar blue. He throws two ration boxes on our table and lifts me from the ground with ease.

“Watch,” he growls to me, pushing me down onto the cement bench and turning around to face Clove’s buddy. “You’re so fucked,” Peeta tells him, tucking his chin to his chest and cracking his knuckles.

“Hey, man. I tried to stop her-” Marvel starts, but Peeta shakes his head and skims a hand over his buzzed hair. 

“Your girl touched mine.” Peeta stabs a finger in my direction without looking at me. “She threatened what’s _mine_.” He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the ripped body that I know all too well. “You can’t control what’s yours? I’m taking it out of your ass.” 

The other boy holds up his hands and backs away, but Peeta is on him, landing a solid punch on his cheek. The Hive erupts into screams and cheers, and all I can do is stare, my fingers covering my mouth in horror as my buddy delivers a beating like I’ve never seen to the boy named Marvel.

No guard breaks up the fight.

* * *

“Eat.” A ration box is shoved into my hands.

“I’m not hungry.”

Glacial blue eyes cut my way. I open the box.

I pull my legs to my chest and lean back against the cell wall, chewing on a piece of jerky without tasting it. We don’t eat on the bed, ever. Normally we’d finish our meager meals in the Hive, but after Peeta left Marvel unmoving on the dome floor, he had casually gathered up our rations and escorted me back to the cell.

I swallow, wishing I had some water with the meal. But I feel frozen to the floor, watching as Peeta cleans the blood from his fists at our small sink. “Listen. I just- I want to thank you-”

“You are fucking weak,” he says, deathly quiet. “And it can’t continue.”

My next bite of jerky turns to ash in my mouth. 

“Tell me.” Peeta turns and wipes his wet hands on his pants, his jaw clenched. “Do you want to die?”

I breathe. Chew. Swallow.

His scar stands out starkly against his cheek as he waits for an answer that never comes. He swears and stomps over, crouching down in front of me and clutching at my shoulder with a still-damp hand. “Answer me!”

“No,” I whisper, lowering my head. “I don’t want to die.”

His nose flares. “Eat your food.”

We finish our dinner in silence, and I wait for him to unlock the cell and dispose of the ration boxes. Peeta abhors even the slightest clutter or trash in our room.

But he doesn’t move. Instead, he holds the boxes out to me.

“Take them,” Peeta says. “Throw them away.”

I hesitate. This feels…strange. Like a test. His voice is all wrong.

“Okay.” I move to take them, but he doesn’t release his hold yet.

“And then I want you to find the girl who did this” -he touches the tiny knick on my cheek- “and you’re gonna beat the shit out of her.”

“What?” I stutter, walking backwards so fast that I fall against the bed, landing hard on my ass. “No- I can’t do that.” I clutch the boxes to my chest.

“You can. You _will_.” He runs a hand through my short hair and tugs my head back, forcing me to meet his eyes. “If you don’t, you’re going to end up in the same position over and over again. On the floor. Helpless. The Blights and the Cloves?” He’s relentless, the sheer force of his stare making my eyes water in return. “They’re not going to stop. It doesn’t matter that you’re tiny, or cute, or a girl. Someone is always going to be there, trying to take you down. Understand me?”

“But, Peeta...”

“Do you understand?”

I gulp and nod, looking somewhere over his shoulder. “Yes.”

His other hand gently moves my face back toward his. “I may not always be there,” Peeta says, his expression easing from manic intensity to stark severity. “I’m not planning on it,” he adds, seeing the fear in my eyes. “But things like today, they can’t keep happening. If I was just a minute too late…” he trails off, his eyes growing dark.

“I’ll be more careful.” I sound so, so weak.

“You will.” His voice cools. “And you’re going to do as I say.” Peeta pulls me to my feet, and I hold the empty ration boxes as if they are a lifeline. He pulls the cell key out of his pocket and unlocks the door, and I stumble out of the cell on numb feet.

“Wait-” My eyes are wide with panic as he shuts the door in my face, the bars putting what feels like a mile of distance between us. “Please.”

“Don’t come back until it’s done,” he says flatly, and turns away.

* * *

I try to calm my rapidly racing heart, struggling to capture it and pull it back into my chest. I can count on one hand the amount of times that I’ve been out into the Hive by myself, and never after dark. It’s not as if it’s a particularly safe or welcoming place in daylight, but the mood changes significantly in the dark. That’s when the less brave retreat to their cells, a wordless understanding among every inmate that only the most formidable of FYI residents are welcome in the Hive after a certain hour.

I’ve been out with Peeta before, sitting quietly at his side while he plays a game of dice or facilitates a trade between two inmates, his arm a heavy, binding weight around my shoulder while he makes sure no one gets stabbed over a contraband candy bar deal gone wrong. His hand, a burning brand on my lower back while we take an after-dinner walk around the circle of the dome. Funny how I miss it now.

Yes, it’s different out here on my own, and I find myself shivering uncontrollably once the empty ration boxes are tossed into an overflowing trash bin. Curious looks are being sent my way, but no one approaches me. The memory of Peeta’s bloody retribution is sure to be fresh on everyone’s minds, so while it’s not currently drawing any more enemies, I’m sure as hell not making new friends either.

“Damn, Brainless.” A low whistle sounds from my left, and Johanna appears like a ghost, a pale imitation of a smirk on her lips as she wipes her mouth. I look over her shoulder and watch as a tall boy pulls up his pants, heading away from the wall that he was leaning against moments before. “That was some scene earlier.”

I look at her with a question in my expression, and she scowls down at the box in her hand.

“Don’t,” she warns, scrubbing at her mouth again. “You’re not in any fucking position to judge me.”

“I wasn’t. Judging you, I mean.” I move to take her hand but swiftly pull away, noticing the way she eyes my fingers with hostility. Note to self: Johanna does not like to be touched. “I just…wish things were different,” I finish lamely, touching the cut on my cheek.

“You’re in a pretty good position.” I can hear the envy in her too casual tone.

“It’s not that great, Johanna. I’m not much better off than you.”

“Oh?” she asks sharply, laughing without humor. She gestures behind her, to the shadowy portion of wall that leads out into the forbidden administrative section of FYI. “So you’re not blowing random guys for ration boxes?”

“No,” I say evenly. “Just one. And right now he’s not exactly my favorite person.”

“Yeah, well, that _one_ is willing to commit murder for your golden snatch. So pardon me if I’m not particularly sympathetic.”

We’re quiet for a moment. “He wants me to beat down Clove,” I finally admit, sneaking a look around us. Plenty of eyes are trained our way. “Apparently I’m weak and in need of some street cred.”

“Yeah?” Johanna’s brown eyes spark with interest. “I’ll help you.”

“What?” I ask, straightening in shock.

“Why not?” She shrugs, opening her ration box and tearing into it with a speed that makes me concerned of choking hazards. “Your psycho boy has a point. Can’t hurt.” She eyes me between bites, her mouth full. “And no offense, but I’m doubting your dark, delicate beauty is going to be much of a match against her big ass.”

“What do you want in exchange?” Peeta’s cynicism and dealings have rubbed off on me. Nothing comes for free in the Hive.

She picks at her teeth with a blunt fingernail before tossing her empty box into the trash. “Let’s just say you’ll owe me a favor.”

I worry my bottom lip, wincing when I bite down a little too hard. Peeta said I had to deliver this justice myself. I wonder how he’ll react if I have help…

“Your funeral,” Johanna says, shrugging and turning away.

…but I can’t do this on my own. I’m a fool if I turn her away.

“Wait,” I call out softly, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “Fine.”

She looks over her shoulder and smiles. “Thought so. Follow me.”

“You know where she is?” I ask, feeling a little stupid as I trail after her. I speed up and walk beside her instead.

Johanna nods. “She hangs out with a few other bitches in the annex after dinner.”

The annex is on the first floor, and is the length of roughly four cells. Inside are a handful of pathetic board games with missing pieces, a few filthy couches that are a playground of questionable sexual activities and in furious demand on a rotating basis, and a table with an ongoing chess game between a giant dark boy with one eye and his twitchy red-haired buddy. Needless to stay, no one touches the chess pieces unless they want a world of pain raining down on their head. There’s a couple of bookshelves with tattered paperbacks as well, but they are tightly guarded and difficult to obtain. Peeta and I don’t go to the annex much unless I want to pick out a book, which usually means a swift fight ensues. Neither one of us are much for socializing.

I take a deep breath as we get closer to the annex, quelling the urge to drag my feet like a reluctant child. “All right.”

“So how do you want to play this?” Johanna asks in a low voice, and I watch as a blonde girl taps the object of my attention on the shoulder, her eyes wide as she watches us approach. I recognize the girl as _Glimmer_ , an especially…amorous inmate, and one I suspect has been with Peeta before, if her angry, jealous glares are any indication. She’s even approached him a few times in my presence, all smiles and flirtation, only to walk away shortly after when he ignores her with stone-cold regularity. “Should I hold her down, or what?”

“Um.” I blink when Clove moves to stand from a couch, clearly in pain as she struggles to her feet. I recall the impact of her body smacking the concrete when Peeta tossed her to the side. “I’m not sure.” My voice sounds far away.

“Well,” Johanna says from somewhere behind me. I didn’t even notice that I had sped past her. “Let me know when you make up your mind.”

My mind becomes blank as I walk toward Clove, who bares her teeth at me like a cornered rat. I notice that Glimmer nor anyone else stands with her.

“Look, bitch. I don’t-”

My hand explodes in pain when it connects to her nose. Blood spurts onto her indecently low dress, and she reaches out to claw at me before dropping back onto the couch behind her. Her hands scramble to find purchase in my hair, but I swiftly lean back before popping her in the face again, my knees straddling her legs. Someone shrieks behind me, probably Glimmer, but it doesn’t faze me as I pull back and deliver blow after blow into Clove’s face. I feel like I’m outside of my body watching myself, and I don’t stop until I’m forcefully lifted away.

“That’s enough, little girl,” someone rumbles in my ear. “It’s okay, now. You’re gonna kill her. You don’t wanna do that.”

I twist and jerk out of the thick arms that are holding me back, and whirl around to see the one-eyed chess player. Thresh, that’s his name.

“Run along now,” he says, his eye dark and oddly tranquil. “You done good.”

I pant, covered in blood, an unmoving statue while everyone in the annex stares at me with wary fear. Glimmer hovers over her battered friend, her green eyes speculative as she looks at Clove and then back at me. Clove moans to herself and curls into a ball, her face a wreck.

_I did that._

“Come on, Katniss,” Johanna hisses, grabbing my elbow. “Jesus, what was that? Who are you?”

“Don’t know,” I say numbly, allowing her to lead me away. “I don’t know.”

I can feel the looks we’re receiving as we walk across the dome toward the stairs that lead to my second floor cell. I never thought I’d feel this desperate to be inside. It’s the equivalent of a Sunday afternoon back home in Twelve, where all I want to be is in the woods, deep in the heart of my safe place.

Only here in FYI, three walls and a door made of bars are my safe place.

“Up you go,” Johanna is saying to me, and I take the steps one at a time, like a district elder.

The cell door is open, and Peeta is waiting, leaning halfway out as if he’s been standing there all along. And maybe he has, if his expression is any indication.

“Your girl did good,” Johanna says. “She-”

Peeta barely spares her a glance as he pulls me into the room. “Leave.” 

“Match made in heaven,” she mumbles.

He shuts the door and locks it behind us, further making his point.

“I’m sorry, Johanna,” I say faintly, but she’s already walking up the staircase toward her cell, located many levels above ours. Later I’ll feel guilty for how Peeta treated her, but right now, I’m empty.

“Come here,” he says, pushing me toward the sink. Peeta stands behind me and cleans my hands under the water, patiently scrubbing the blood from my short nails, rubbing my fingers between his and using a precious sliver of soap to catch every streak of red staining my skin. He uses his own shirt to dry my hands, and then turns me around, searching my face.

“Did you see?”

He gives a short, curt nod. “You did well.”

“It was horrible,” I say, my mouth trembling. And then I slap him.

Peeta’s head barely turns with the force of my blow, and he looks back at me, calm and steady. “Hit me again.” He sees my hesitation and inclines his chin. “Go on,” he encourages me, his eyes softer than I’ve ever seen. “Do it.”

I raise my hand. Pause. Drop it. And then I cry.

“Peeta,” I say, stunning us both when I wrap my arms around him. “I’ve never done anything like that before. It’s not- I’ve never-”

“Shhh,” he says, holding me until my sobs subside. “Hush, now.”

He rocks me back and forth, maneuvering us to the bed. I sit down and drop my head into my hands, leaning into his fingers when he strokes my hair. Then he pries one of my hands away from my face.

“Katniss,” he says, not unkindly. But firm. I look at him. “There’s going to be many things you’ll do in here that you’ve never done before. This is…it’s just the start of it all.”

My face crumples. “I hated it.” I exhale, the sound shaky. “I hated…that I didn’t hate it.”

Understanding creeps into his eyes, and suddenly we’re just the baker’s son and the miner’s girl from back home, and I cling to his hand, because though it’s borne from a dark act of violence, it’s a precious moment between us that I don’t want to lose.

But all too soon, Peeta’s face is changing, his eyes hooded, his lips parting as he studies me.

“Some things…” he starts, dropping to his knees to land between mine. “Some of the things you’ll do? They aren’t all bad.”

‘What-” I protest, but he pushes up my dress, urging me to lean back on my elbows. He slides down my panties and kisses the tops of my thighs until I’m a panting, confused mess.

“Have you ever?” Peeta asks, staring up at me from beneath his long, golden eyelashes.

“Have I…?” I don’t understand the question until he kisses me between my legs– a warm, wet open-mouthed kiss.

“F-fuck,” I swear, and he laughs with pleasure at my rare curse. “No, I’ve nev- _ver_.” The word drifts off into a low, stuttered moan when his kiss turns into long licks and sweet nibbles as he parts my lower lips with two fingers.

“You’ve… “ _Lick. “…_ been…” _Kiss_. “…a very good girl tonight,” he murmurs before diving back between my legs with renewed vigor. “So good.”

“Peeta,” I pant, my back arching reflexively. He chuckles, and the sound reverberates in the most pleasurable way imaginable. “I’m gonna, oh my… _please_.” I stammer out a long stream of nonsensical words and prayers, begging him for more as he works me to orgasm between my thighs.

When I finally come a short while later, my leg is slung over his shoulder and my hand is clutching his head, the feel of his short hair scraping my palm as I grind his face into the most intimate part of me. I have no shame, no inhibitions as I scream out his name, my vision going blurry when the tension releases from my body with the last of the warm lashes of his tongue against my clit.

He eases my leg off his shoulder and stands, stretching in satisfaction. I struggle to sit up, my face a dull, flushed red when I come back to reality. I pull up my panties and turn my face away.

“Now you’re embarrassed?” Peeta asks mildly, his own cheeks a little pink as well. His chin is glistening, and I realize with startling clarity that he’s glistening with _me_. My juices. 

“I’m just- oh,” I say, my mouth forming an ‘o’ as I stare at the redness on the back of his neck. I had apparently attempted to choke him to death if the marks are any indication. I stand up and walk around him in a circle, reaching up to touch his skin. He watches me warily, as if I’m a crazy thing. “Did I hurt you?”

“Hurt me?” He glares at me like have two heads. “You little idiot. Katniss…that was-”

Peeta kisses me, pulling me to him tightly. My lips part and allow his tongue entrance, and I taste something tangy on his tongue before realizing that it’s the taste of _me_. Clothes are removed with haste, and we fall to the bed, Peeta entering me with a rough enthusiasm that sends me into a second orgasm shortly before he finds his own release.

“Why haven’t you done that before?” I ask later when we’re both almost asleep, my head resting on his chest.

“Hmm?”

“You know,” I say, my voice barely a whisper in the darkness of our cell. “Kiss me…down there.”

“Liked that, huh?” His chest shakes, and I realize with surprise that he’s laughing. “Maybe I was saving it,” he tells me, a satisfied smile in his voice. “Have to keep you on your toes.”

I bury my face into his side. “Jerk.”

“Hey,” he says, turning serious. His hand touches my cheek before sliding down to rest on my hip. “Earlier. I’m- I just want to tell you that you were never in danger. Not really. I would never…” He exhales. “I’d have died before I let her touch you again.”

“Why?” So many questions in one word.

_Why do you protect me? Why did you single me out? Why do you put up with me, skinny little Katniss Everdeen? Will I ever stop owing you?_

Peeta’s hand tightens on my hip. “Because you’re you.”

I open my mouth. Close it.

“Try not to die, Katniss.” He sounds almost pleading. “Please.”

I’ll try.

* * *

Peeta’s gone when I wake up in the morning. The key is resting on his side of the pillow, a gesture that shocks me, because he never, ever leaves without it in his pocket.

I quickly dress and brush my teeth with some of Peeta’s cleaning powder before braiding my hair back. Tomorrow is a showering day, and I absolutely cannot wait. I can only stand so many bird baths from our sink.

I stretch and hesitate for only a second before leaving the cell. I’m struck with the realization that I feel almost _free_ since the first time I darkened these doors. The constant fear and never ending anxiety that has strummed through my veins is greatly diminished, although not gone completely, as I walk down the stairs and into the Hive. A few people nod at me respectfully when I pass, and my lips curve into a pleased smile.

I see Peeta sitting at our table, a few hanger-ons already there. They’re talking eagerly, all trying to curry favor with my buddy, but his face is completely devoid of emotion.

Until he sees me.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wave. But he blinks, long and slow, and in his eyes is a world of affection and unspoken words, and I realize that today marks the dawn of a new beginning.

“Hi,” I say as I approach the table. I consider where to sit, the spacing tight.

He lifts his chin and gives me a challenging stare.

I sit on his lap.

Peeta smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are shared, games are played, and Katniss is ready to prove herself. Peeta just might kill her for it.

“Two packs of gum,” he says. “Non-negotiable.”

The boy known as Jinx twitches, his thin lips skewing in a rapid, jerking motion as if someone pulled them with a string. “Th-three. Your girl...” Jinx shoots a quick glance my way, but he’s careful not to linger— everyone has learned not to stare too long at me. “Sh-she s-seems like sh-she’s hurtin’ real bad.”

Peeta’s nostrils flare. “Don’t look at her. Look at me. This isn’t her deal.” He displays the gum across his palm like the rare treasures they are. “Two. And I’m not repeating myself.”

“C'mon, M-Mellark.” Jinx bounces on the balls of his feet. “This is m-my last s-s-tash. Y'know what I had t-to do...”

“I don’t care how much dick you sucked.” His voice is cold, uncaring. “I want the pills, Jinx. And I’m willing to trade.” He lets loose a long-suffering sigh. “But in a few minutes, I’m not going to be so nice.”

A minute later, we have our pills.

“I feel bad for him.” I stumble a little as we walk away, and Peeta cups my elbow, righting me against him.

“Don’t.”

“But he seems so-”

“Pitiful?” Peeta smiles without humor. “That’s because he is. And it works really well when he’s luring girls into dark Capitol alleyways.”

I look at him. “He’s…”

“A rapist,” he confirms.

“We shouldn’t even have given him the gum,” I say, glaring over my shoulder toward Jinx, who’s watching us with an enraged expression.

“One of the packs is empty,” Peeta says. “But you’re right.” His hand hovers over my lower back when we walk up the stairs to our cell. “He didn’t even deserve that. But doing business with monsters is…” His voice trails off. “A necessary evil.”

Peeta unlocks the cell door and ushers me inside, where I promptly collapse onto the bed. He pours a cup of water and forces me to sit up despite my groans of protest.

“Open up,” he says, and I dutifully follow his directions when he places a pill on the back of my tongue. “Now drink.”

He watches my face, and I can’t help but laugh at his dire expression. “It won’t take effect that fast, Peeta.” I rub my forehead and wince. “I wish it would.”

“I know. Don’t like seeing you in pain, though.”

“I’m not gonna die from a headache,” I deadpan. Peeta frowns, and I take his hand when he looks unconvinced. “Thank you.” I look at him. “For going through the trouble. I could have just requested to go to the infirmary and saved you the hassle.”

He shakes his head. “You’re never going there. Okay? Over my dead body, Katniss.”

“O- _kay_.”

“I’m serious,” Peeta pushes, a hard glint in his eye. “Nothing in this place comes for free, and something as simple as a sore tooth isn’t treated without swallowing a mouthful of cum first. God help you if you’re actually _sick_. You either leave in a body bag or wish you had.”

“Have you ever…?” I’m afraid to finish the question.

“No.” His mouth twists to the side. “Luckily I’ve never been seriously ill. And anything that would have normally needed medical attention” -he touches the jagged scar running across his face- “I handled on my own.” Peeta smirks, his eyes not quite meeting mine. “Maybe it would have been worth it, huh? I’m not so pretty now.”

I can’t help myself. I kiss his scar. “I like it.”

Peeta turns his head and gives me a hot, considering look. “I really, really hope that pill kicks in soon.”

“Oh, yeah?” I shiver when he grasps the nape of my neck and squeezes.

“Yeah.” His breath tickles my skin when he drops a slow kiss there, and I don’t protest when he pushes me back against our pillow. “I want you so bad.”

“I can handle it,” I say boldly, running a hand through his hair. I drag his lips down to meet mine, tugging with insistence when he resists. “Whatever you want to give me.”

“Sleep,” he says, trying to be stern even as he groans out the word. “Because when we wake up, I’m fucking you with or without a migraine.”

He curls around my back and sighs, his whole body relaxing when his arm slides over my hip.

“Peeta.”

“Mhmm.”

“Did you…did you kill your mom?”

He tenses. 

“Yes.”

I nod to myself and lean back against him. “Okay.”

I’m almost asleep when he starts to speak.

“She hit me,” Peeta says, the words just a whisper against my neck. “It wasn’t- well, you probably know it wasn’t the first time. Everyone did. Even…even my dad.” He sounds so ashamed that I want to cover his body with mine and soak up the vulnerability there, but I also know he would never want this conversation face-to-face. So instead, I continue to stare at the blank wall across from us. “But this time, it was with a rolling pin. I thought that was it for me. It hurt so much- and- I went deaf in one ear for awhile, but the hearing came back.” He falters, as if trapped in the memory. “But there I was, crawling on the ground, and she lifted the pin again. I just stared up at her, like- I can’t believe this. She really hates me. My mother wants me to die.” His voice turns dreamy, and he sounds so empty, so lifeless that chills run up my spine. “So I just, I snapped. I rolled out of the way. I grabbed the first thing I saw. A cast-iron pan, you know the big, deep ones? We used them to make fritters.”

I nod, because it seems like he expects an answer.

He continues, “I cracked her head open. She fell over, right there on top of the premium bags of white flour. She bled all over thousands of coins worth of merchandise.” He starts to laugh, the sound low and lost. I grab his hand and he squeezes back. “I think the Capitol was more angry about that than me actually killing her.”

I’m silent, because I don’t think any words of mine will be enough.

“Do you think…do you think I’m a monster?” he finally asks. “Like them.”

I have the word for this.

“No.”

Peeta doesn’t reply. Instead, he draws me back toward his body, pressing us so closely together that I don’t know where I stop and where he begins.

* * *

“Rise and shine, princess.”

“Her name is Katniss,” Peeta mumbles, pulling me closer and burying his face in my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut before cracking them open, fearful of the intruding voice.

The voice chuckles. “I wasn’t talking to _her_.”

I lay on my side stiffly, not sure what to make of this banter between Peeta and the crisply dressed guard who’s unlocking our cell door.

The guard continues, his voice too bright and cheerful for FYI, “Now get your lazy asses up. It’s cell check time.”

I sit up with a quick jerk of my body and attempt to catch Peeta’s eye, who is maddeningly languid as he moves from behind me and stands on the cold, cement floor.

_How can he be so casual?_

I try not to stare too long toward the shelf that contains a small pile of highly forbidden contraband pills. We were stupid, so _stupid,_ to not put them up before falling asleep. I can’t help but think it’s my fault, because the careful, wary Peeta I met when I first entered FYI would have never slipped up like this.

From what I can tell from past cell checks, Peeta is on fairly good terms with some of the guards. He doesn’t openly flaunt any of our truly prohibited items, such as the sharp knife we keep under the mattress, but he’s not exactly hiding his wooden sculptures that he obviously creates with a carving tool. The guards come in, poke around a bit, and then leave with little to no trouble.

But painkillers are another matter. And when I lift my eyes, I realize I’ve never seen this guard.

“You know the drill,” the guard says, clapping his hands together loudly. I blink, because the man in front of me is possibly the most attractive person I’ve ever seen, and not at all what I would have ever imagined an FYI guard could look like. The others have been grizzled and hardened with age, or young with cruel mouths. Not green-eyed with careless bronze hair. “Turn your pretty faces to the wall while I do my business.”

“Aw, Finnick,” Peeta drawls. He gestures for me to turn around when I just dumbly stand there, and he slips his fingers through mine as he speaks to the metal bars of the door. “No one has a prettier face than yours.”

“Can it, Mellark,” Finnick says, the sounds of him flipping the mattress filling the empty space between his words. “Your little girlfriend is gonna get jealous of our flirting.”

“Peeta,” I say lowly, my eyes darting to his. “What about…”

“It’s fine.” His words are short and clipped, but his expression is calm.

I suffer in silence while listening to the rustling noises behind us; the muted, soft pulling sounds of a pillow being unstuffed, the hollow clink of a toilet lid being removed, and the mattress being flipped back into place. I can even hear when he reaches our shelves, and I freeze in terror, just waiting for him to bust us for the pills.

But he never does.

My spine straightens when Finnick moves to stand so close that he’s almost between us, his voice dropping several octaves from his previous jolly tone.

“All clear,” he says softly. “You should really keep your pillow clean, you know?”

Before I can ponder on this confusing statement, Peeta gives me something else to chew on.

“How is she?” Peeta asks.

“She’s fine. She-” He hesitates. “She had the baby.”

Peeta’s fingers jerk in mine, the only sign of his surprise.

“That’s…that’s good.”

“Yeah,” Finnick says. “She asks about you every day.”

“She should forget about me,” he says with gritted teeth, his fingers locked up into stiff curves. “Forget all about this place. I know I will.”

“Well. Turn around.” The guard’s voice rises to normal levels, and we obey. “I declare your room contraband-free.” His green eyes dart to mine, and I feel flayed while getting the sense that this man is taking my measure with only a quick once-over. Finnick leans in, speaking directly into my ear, “Take care of him. He’s not as hard as he looks.”

And then he’s gone.

I watch, bewildered, as Peeta pulls something free from the pillowcase. It’s a picture, that much I can tell, but the details are quickly lost when he shoves it into his pants pocket. The look he gives me makes it clear the subject is not up for discussion.

Instead, he drags me down onto the bed.

“Your head?” Peeta asks, hovering above me. “You feel better?”

“Yeah.” The word is barely out of my mouth before his lips find mine. Then there’s no more talking, only the squeaking of an ancient mattress and Peeta’s low grunts filling the air.

* * *

We sit at a cement table in the center of the Hive with a few other inmates, chewing our rations in silence while the others chatter around us. I want so badly to bring up Finnick’s visit, and the mysterious _she_ with a baby. I’ve never heard Peeta sound so vulnerable, interested or engaged in another person. Of course I’m _intrigued_. I’m not jealous. I have no right to that emotion. Peeta is only my buddy, and this is a business transaction.

“I can hear you thinking over there,” Peeta says under his breath, pressing the toe of his shoe onto mine underneath the table. “Stop.”

“I can’t.” I frown down at my freeze-dried meat.“Not without asking questions.”

He catches my eye, and his stare is firm. “Did I say you couldn’t ask?”

“I assumed,” I mutter, taking a bite of the meat. I make a face and wish for salt.

Peeta slides my ration box away and pushes his in front of me instead. It’s my favorite -if you can _have_ a favorite in here- of the options, but you don’t get a choice when grabbing the unmarked boxes during chow hour. I chew the cheese sandwich with upturned lips, my mouth touching the bite mark that Peeta left behind. I look at him out of the corner of my eye, a thank you on my lips, but he’s watching me eat with a troubled expression.

“Do me a favor. Stop assuming things about me.” He sounds more tense than the moment calls for, and I look at him sharply before turning away. “We’ll talk about it later,” he says into my ear, less harsh.

I nod and meet the interested, observant eyes of Glimmer, who looks back and forth between Peeta and me with knowing eyes, as if she can sense a crack in the foundation. She’s been tagging along for weeks now, sitting with our group at lunch, talking to me during a shower on hygiene day, and generally too close for comfort. I don’t trust her. Not for one second. I see the way she stares at Peeta with hungry eyes when she thinks I’m not looking.

“What?” I snap at her. She flinches, no doubt remembering the way I dealt with her friend Clove. It took over a week for the bruises to fade from her face, and her nose is still crooked from the crack of my fist. People tread lightly around me now that everyone’s seen my psycho side.

“I was just wondering if you guys were going to the Annex tonight. I mean, it _is_ Game Night,” she says. “Starts in an hour.”

“What is that?” I look at Peeta for an explanation, but Woof, a large, dark boy with stringy hair, sullen eyes and a surprisingly kind disposition beats him to it.

“Tonight is the shift change for guards,” he explains through a mouthful of something called a ‘vegetable bar,’ a tasteless conglomeration of beans, root vegetables and a cauliflower binder. It’s my least favorite ration item. “The ones that’ve had Hive duty for the past six months get a reprieve to perimeter surveillance, transport, stuff like that. The guards who’ve been on the outside are now blessed with our presence for the rest of the year,” he finishes with a smirk.

“Okay,” I say slowly.

Glimmer rolls her eyes at me, like I’m slow on the uptake. “The guards will be slack tonight. No one wants Hive duty, and the ones who are getting out are punch-drunk on excitement. Plus, these losers are all friends that haven’t seen each other in a while. There’s almost always a few of hours where none of them come in and do a sweep before lights out, and the lights usually stay on past midnight.” She exchanges a look with the rest of the table, all years-long veterans of FYI. “That’s when we get to play.”

“What exactly does this involve?”

Peeta presses his lips together. “Don’t worry about it, because we’re not playing.”

Noises of surprise and discontent erupt around the table. “You’re Game Night champion, man. You have to play,” Woof argues, an oily slick of hair falling into his eyes.

Peeta considers him with cold blue eyes, and Woof shrinks backward. “I don’t have to do anything.”

“We play for food, smokes, any kind of contraband that someone else might want,” Glimmer says, popping a piece of chocolate into her mouth for emphasis. I don’t know how she managed to wrangle that from a ration box, but the way she makes eyes at the ration duty guards gives me a pretty good idea of her methods. Her smile turns crafty. “We even play for…favors. Buddy trading, ten minute cell hops with singles…” She looks at Peeta and bats her eyelashes. “Don’t we?”

The table grows quiet. Peeta takes a bite of meat without comment, ignoring her completely. I, however, am shaking with anger and embarrassment and something hot like a knife in my gut. I want to smack the smug little look off Glimmer’s pretty face. The pretty face I know Peeta has been with at least once. 

My stomach turns. “Yeah.” I push my ration box away. “We’re gonna pass on that.”

“Scared, Katniss?” Glimmer’s eyes glint with mock innocence. “Don’t worry. I’m sure your buddy would never let anything happen to you. He _never_ loses, and he always gets his pick of prizes.” She licks her lips suggestively.

“That’s enough,” Peeta says, his voice deep with annoyance. He pushes my ration box back in front of me and points at it with a stern finger. Glimmer shuts her mouth, but she looks satisfied.

I, however, am anything but.

* * *

“Whose baby is it?”

I sit on the bed with my arms crossed, staring out of the bars of our cell. I can see everyone scurrying about as they prepare for Game Night, even from the other side of the Hive. I’ve never seen so many people out on the main floor at this time of night, and true to Glimmer’s word, there are no guards lingering around the walls or peering through the observation windows.

Peeta clears his throat, the action clearly borne from aggravation rather than necessity. I’m already regretting my question.

“Do you really want to have this conversation when I’m on the toilet?” he asks, sounding incredulous.

I turn my head toward his voice out of habit but then quickly look away again, even though I could only see his legs due to the very little, but still very appreciated, privacy the bathroom nook affords us. We have a deal when it comes to the bathroom: I look away, and he leaves the cell completely when at all possible. Neither one of us care about peeing, but the other thing…I can’t handle that. Peeta, however, is shameless.

“Katniss?” he calls impatiently.

“Yeah, no, sorry.” I blush and lie down on the bed, covering my face with my hands. “We can wait.”

He’s finished a minute later, and after he washes his hands he sits down on the bed. My fingers are peeled away from my face.

“All right. Ask away.”

“We can wait,” I mumble.

“Apparently not,” he says. “It was important enough to ask while I was taking a shit.”

I sit up and glare at him. “Fine. What was that picture Finnick left?”

Peeta jams his hand into his pocket, hesitates, and then pulls out the item in question. “Here.” He thrusts it into my hand.

I stare down at the picture of a chubby, healthy baby boy with bronze tufts of hair and laughing green eyes. I already know the answer, but I ask again anyway. “Whose baby is this?”

“Finnick’s. The guard from earlier.” He taps his fingers on his knee. “And Annie’s.”

“The girl who’s been asking about you,” I say slowly, unrest washing over me.

“Yeah.” Peeta looks at me, his eyes narrowed. “But it’s not like that.”

“What’s it like then?” His put-upon expression makes me hurry to continue, “You don’t have to tell me, you know. None of this is my business.”

“It is,” he says. “I want it to be your business. I don’t want you thinking the worst of me. That I have some kid out there I don’t care about.” He gives a small half-smirk when he sees me blush. _Caught_. “I could read your mind, Katniss. Besides, even if that kid didn’t look like Finnick spit him out, I’m incapable of fathering a child right now.” He holds out his arm and points to the area that houses the same implant I received upon arrival at FYTI. “Remember?”

I nod, and he continues, “Annie is…was an inmate here. She’s different. Not slow or anything. Real smart, brilliant even. But she doesn’t think like the rest of us. It’s almost like she’s not even on the same planet as us sometimes, you know?” His eyes take on a faraway glint. “She only had a four-month sentence to serve here before she aged out, but I don’t think she’d have made it even that long. Not without help.”

“Were you her buddy?” My stomach drops at the thought. He told me he’d never had one, but…

“Not officially. Not like you’re thinking. But I couldn’t just let her get chewed up by this place. Annie was sweet. Almost child-like at times.” He pauses, sucking his teeth before speaking again. “And pregnant.”

My eyes widen. “ _What_? But how did that even happen?”

Peeta shakes his head. “She was pregnant before she was sentenced. She and Finnick were together- they knew each other from outside first. If he hadn’t pulled some undercover strings so he’d have receiving duty the day she got to FYI, Annie would’ve gotten the tracking implant…which would have definitely killed the baby.”

“And no one noticed she was pregnant?”

“She was only a month along when she was sentenced. She wasn’t showing too badly when she left.” Peeta looks at the ceiling. “Obviously no one from here knows he and Annie are together. She moved back down to their home district when she was released, and it’s a pretty tight knit community. Very protective.”

“I won’t say anything,” I promise, ingesting everything he’s told me.

“I know.” He touches my hand, just a brief brush of his fingers against mine. “But now you know why Finnick goes a little easy on me. And why I’m…fond of Annie. He gives me updates about her, and sometimes I get to feel good about myself because I helped her out while she was here.”

“You’re not as hard as you look, Peeta Mellark.”

He mock scowls at me. “Don’t go spreading that around.”

I laugh. “And who would I tell?” I gesture to the cell door and the people scurrying around below. “One of them?”

We both watch the inmates for a moment, the silence between us both comfortable and familiar now.

“We’re not playing Games with them,” he says conversationally. “Just in case you were wondering.”

“Why not?”

“Weren’t you listening at all?” Peeta gives me a dead-eyed stare. “Buddy swaps? Cell hops? That sounds like a good time to you?”

“It sounded like a good time to you, once,” I counter, a challenge in my voice.

He huffs, an all-at-once noise, like he’s severely put out with me. “All right, Katniss. Let me have it.”

“What do you mean?” I lift my chin and look away.

Peeta frames my face with his hands and firmly turns my head toward his. “I know you’re dying to give me shit about Glimmer. Who means nothing, by the way.”

I pull away. “It’s fine,” I say, the words stilted. “It’s before you knew me.”

“Would you stop looking like that? You knew I wasn’t a damn virgin before you got here. And I did know you. It was just before I could _have_ you.” His eyes flatten and his mouth narrows into a thin, displeased line, as if he’s mortally offended. The tautness of his expression draws attention to his facial scars, the skin pulling around the ragged edges of them. “I’ve _known_ you my whole life.”

I wave away his words, trying to shake off the chill running up my spine at the thought of him and Glimmer together, probably having sex in this very-

I have to ask. “Did you do it here?”

He gives his head a little shake, as if he’s trying to keep up with me and can’t. “Did I do what here?”

I forge ahead. “Did you screw her in our bed?”

He meets my eyes, wary. “You really want details?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t be pissed afterwards.”

“I won’t.”.

“I’m fucking serious, Katniss.”

“Isaid I won’t.”

“Fine.” Peeta purses his lips, his legs sprawled and his hands clasped between them, his feet planted on the floor while he sits on the edge of the bed next to me. “Yeah, I did her. No, it wasn’t in this bed. I bent her over a couch in the Annex a few times. It wasn’t great. Wasn’t even good. Wasn’t that good with anyone here, honestly. Especially now that I know what it’s supposed to feel like.” He looks at me, his eyes meaningful, like I’m supposed to feel ecstatic about being the superior lay. “You feel better now?”

No. No, I definitely do not feel better. I’m so upset at myself for pushing the issue that I could scream.

“Yeah.”

He cocks his head, his eyebrows raised. “Why’re you pacing like that, then?”

I stop in my tracks and stab a finger toward the Hive. “I want to play.”

Peeta’s expression grows stormy, and his eyes shutter like a closed window. “No.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Well, I’m fucking telling you, we’re not-”

“You don’t own me!’ I yell, and then clap my hand over my mouth. We stare at each other.

He breaks first, standing to face me. “You’re right,” Peeta finally says. “I don’t own you.” His voice is calm, rational. It makes me feel even more out of control, and I hate it. “But will you trust me that it’s not a game you want to play?” He looks me up and down, deliberating before speaking. Like he’s carefully choosing his words. “You’re too damn small, Katniss. I guarantee that whatever hairbrained idea they’ve all come up with is something brutal. These aren’t mind games,” he says. “These people want to make you bleed.”

“Fine,” I say. “You think I’m weak.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“ _Fine_ ,” I repeat, louder this time. “So why don’t you play? Since you’re so big, so damn tough.” I lift my chin and tilt my head toward the door. “Maybe I want to make sure I picked the right _buddy_.” I’m being mean now, and I hate myself. Why am I trying to punish him for something that he isn’t even at fault for? All I know is that I want him to hurt.

Peeta leans against the cell wall and rubs his eyes with his palms, looking for all the world like I exhaust him. When he pulls his hands away, his face is cold.

“And what would be the benefit?” he asks bluntly. “I only ever played the Games to get street cred and easy ass.” Peeta gives me a slow, appraising look, his lips cruel. “I’ve already got both of those things now.”

I suck in a breath, the sting of his words burrowing deep into my chest.

“Fuck. _You_.”

He pushes away from the wall, something like remorse flooding his eyes. “Katniss-”

I glare at him, practically panting. “I can’t believe you said that to me.”

Peeta reaches out a hand toward me but I push him, and he stumbles backward. I grab the cell key from the shelf and he makes a move like he’s going to stop me, but I duck under his arm and rush past him, slipping the key into the lock and pushing open the door in one smooth move.

“Goddammit, Katniss.” I hear him behind me on the stairs a moment later, and when I reach the Hive floor, he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Look, about what I said-”

“Are you going to play?” I whirl around and point at him with a shaking finger. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

Peeta closes his eyes briefly and opens them again, resigned. “I will. “ He regards me with lidded eyes. “If that’s what you want.”

“It _is_.”

“So, if I lose,” he starts, crossing his arms. “ _If_ I lose- you’re willing to be my collateral, then? You’re just going to go off with my challenger or whoever and bend over for them in the Annex.”

“Worked for Glimmer.” I soften when I see the expression on his face. “I guess you’ll just have to win.”

We’re silent as we walk toward the massive group of inmates that are in groups and sticky clumps that grown denser as we near the Annex. People are sitting on tables, leaning against walls, and basically covering the entire main floor of the Hive.

“Hey!” Johanna appears in front us, her face covered in a fine sheen of sweat. It’s abnormally hot, made worse by the sheer body heat of all of the inmates packed together. “Are you playing?” she asks me.

“No,” Peeta says, putting a hand on my head. I jerk out from underneath his splayed fingers. “She’s not.”

“Well, if _you_ are, you’re supposed to go tell that guy.” She jerks a thumb toward a squirrely looking boy with shifty eyes crouched on the ground a few feet away, writing on the floor with a piece of chalk. I can see a list of names with a few words scribbled after them.

_Pollux- 2 chocolate bars_

_Thresh- fight backup_

_Lamina- notebook & half pencil_

_Woof- 4 beef jerky_

And so on.

“Hey,” Peeta says. Many faces turn our way but then quickly avert. No one stares at Peeta too long, but the boy on the floor looks up at us. “Yeah, you.” He thrusts his hand into the pocket of his pants and pulls it back out. When he opens his palm, I see a small pile of pills resting there. My eyes fly to Peeta’s, but he ignores me. “Put me down for these.”

The boy nods respectfully, and Peeta looks at me for a long moment before speaking. “I’m going to the Annex. The players meet there first.” He moves to grab my hand but I step backward.

“I’ll be right there.” I hold up a palm when it’s clear he’s going to protest, no doubt thinking of the times he’s left me alone and I’ve gotten in trouble. “I just want to talk to Johanna for a second.”

“All right.” Peeta eyes me, mistrustful. “But if you’re not with me in a few minutes, I’m going to come and find you.” There’s a hint of a threat in his voice, but I just roll my eyes and agree.

“Daaamn.” Johanna watches as he walks away, whistling lowly. I bristle at the way she stares at his ass, then remind myself that she’s my friend. Or at least the closest thing to one at FYI. “That’s a good one, Everdeen.”

“He’s okay,” I say, distracted. I turn and walk toward the boy on the floor. He looks up at me, confused. “Put me down on the list.”

His mouth drops, and he looks around, searching for Peeta. “We’ve only got room for one more.”

“Perfect. Add me.” I feel Johanna’s presence by my elbow, but I ignore her.

He scratches his greasy hair. “What’re you gonna trade?” the boy asks, skeptical.

I smile grimly, and answer. Johanna stares at me, her mouth open so wide she could catch flies.

Shortly after, I stroll toward the Annex.

A look of relief smooths out the pinched contours of Peeta’s face when I appear by his elbow inside the Annex nook. His eyes flatten with mild annoyance a moment later, masking the evidence of his relief.

“Took you long enough.” He fits his fingers into mine, the gesture softening his gruff words.

“Sorry.” I glance around the Annex, surveying the competition. I take a breath. “I had to register.”

Composure melts into disbelief and anger. “You what?”

A loud, shrill whistle echoes into the air, and the thrum of voices inside the Hive becomes silent.

“Listen up, people!” shouts a tall, intimidating boy with choppy, red hair. He hops onto a cement table a few feet away from where we stand inside of the Annex. “I’m your Game Master tonight, and we’re about to start— shut up, do you wanna hear the rules or not?” He waits for the din of the crowd to die down before speaking again. “We only have one game on board for tonight. Yeah, yeah, I know. But word has it that the lights are goin’ off earlier than we thought, okay?”

“Well, what is it? What’s the game?” someone yells.

He smiles and crosses his arms, surveying the crowds of people with a smirk.

“Dodgeball.”

I wrinkle my nose when everyone screams in excitement. “Dodgeball? That’s it?” I glance up at Peeta, confused. It’s a basic game that every kid, no matter the district, has grown up playing. It can get a bit brutal, yes, but it’s nothing to fear or get worked up about.

Peeta gives me a grim look, pulling his hand away. His fingers tighten into a fist at his side.

“This isn’t like back at home.” He puts a hand on my head and gently twists it around. “Do you see any balls around here?”

Jinx, the twitchy boy who traded us our pills earlier, comes around to the players’ area with a ragged sack, the type filled with supplies that inmates receive upon arrival. Every inmate but me, I mean. I’m still bitter about that.

“Pull a r-r-rock,” he says, sullen as he thrusts the sack toward us.

Peeta reaches into it and pulls out a jagged, wicked looking black stone about the size of my palm. It looks like what litters the outskirts of the field when we get yard time outside a few times a week. “How’s the gum?”

Jinx’s eyes fill with resentment but he doesn’t reply, instead holding the bag out to me. I pull out a smooth, white stone.

“Put it b-b-back,” he tells me. Bewildered, I drop it into the bag. Jinx moves away, and I watch a moment as Glimmer reaches her arm into the sack with delicate precision, pulling out a stone similar to Peeta’s in color and texture.

“I don’t like this,” Peeta says. He pushes me toward a stained couch at the back of the Annex, and the people occupying it, one holding a stone and one not, quickly evacuate when they see Peeta’s face. “We’re not going to be on the same team.” My confusion must show, because he explains with a curt, “We didn’t get the same kind of rock.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, that could be a good thing, right? Either I throw at you, tag you out and get my pills back” -I glance at him accusingly- “or you throw at me and collect my prize.”

At least, that’s how I assume the rules will go.

“What did you wager?” he asks, raising his voice to be heard over the sheer noise of the Hive beyond. The guards must really be having a good time tonight, because it seems as if we could be heard in other districts. “You have nothing…” He trails off, a deep scowl tinged with panic creasing his face. “Katniss, if you put yourself up for trade, I swear on everything I’ll-”

“You.”

He stares at me, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, his fingers brushing my shoulder. “Me?”

I nod, contrite now that I’ve had time to calm down. “For what it’s worth, I was very mad at you. And pretty confident that no one was gonna force you to do anything you don’t want to do.” I give him a meaningful look.

Peeta’s lips jump with an involuntary twitch, like he doesn’t want to be amused. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“You’re the only thing of value I had to trade,” I tell him, patting his leg. “My buddy.”

He’s silent for a moment, watching the other players with narrowed eyes as they talk in confident clumps, or sit on the floor against the Annex wall clutching rocks, looking nervous. “You’re probably not, but God, I hope you’re a thrower,” he finally says, his arm slipping from the back of the couch to land around my shoulders.

“Why?”

“Because you can shoot,” Peeta says. “Back home, I remember…” He clears his throat. “You were real good with a bow, so you must have good aim.”

“A bow isn’t the same as a rock.”

“Close enough.” His voice goes flat. “Plus, I’m not thrilled with the idea of hitting you with this.” He hefts the weight of the jagged rock, tossing it lightly in his hand. “It’s going to hurt, no matter where I hit you. I can’t make it obvious I’m going easy on you, either. There’s too much at stake tonight. Too many people have bets on this game…” He tucks his chin into his chest and crosses his arms, pensive.

I look at him.

“Who says I’m going to let you hit me?”

Peeta cocks his head at me, and an ear-splitting whistle pierces the air again.

“Circle up, players!” the Game Master says, crouching on top of the table. He points toward the Annex, and hundreds of eyes turn our way. “Players with stones, it’s your lucky day— you’re throwers.” He smiles slyly, his eyes landing on me. “Empty-handed kids— you’re a dodger.”

Peeta curses under his breath and stands. I follow behind him, stumbling a little when players rush past us to enter the Hive floor. The Game Master is directing players on where to stand while a few inmates act as his enforcers, pushing observers away in order to clear a large area for us in the middle of the main floor. I look up and see people hanging over the railing of every level of the dome, fascination and bloodthirsty excitement on their faces. I briefly meet the eyes of Cato, who I have managed to mostly avoid since our bus arrival to FYI, and I'm glad that he's not in this ring with me. There's a girl next to him who looks beaten down by life, and I use part of my disgust toward him to fuel what I have to do next. 

“Throwers, make a circle! What in the— do you idiots know what the hell a circle is!?” the Game Master is saying, the irritation clear in his exasperated instructions. “Dodgers, get in the middle.”

Peeta turns to me, his hands finding my shoulders. “Look, I’ve played this before. I’m hoping I go first. Or close.” He peers into my face. “Catch my rock, let me hit you…whichever. Then we’ll both be out. But if I’m not first, be quick on your feet, okay? You’re small. Use your size.” He touches my forehead with his. “I don’t trust these bastards not to hurt you,” he says under his breath. “But if they do….” Peeta trails off, his flinty eyes promising murder. “I’ll fucking kill them.”

With that, he lets me go with a rough jerk of his hands and turns away, taking his place in the circle.

I edge into the center of the slightly lopsided ring of throwers, slipping into the middle of the group. I count sixteen dodgers and twenty throwers, and I’m quickly running through some sort of strategy in mind when the Game Master speaks again.

“Okay, here are the rules! Listen up, because I ain’t repeating myself.” He clears his throat and makes a pyramid with his fingers. “Throwers, you get two rocks. That means two chances to collect on a dodger’s trade. You tag one of ’em out on the first try, good for you— their prize is yours, and you’re both out of the game. You miss, you get a second try. You miss both times, tough luck, ya fuckin’ loser.”

Everyone laughs at this except the pen of dodgers who shuffle on anxious feet. We’re sitting ducks, waiting to be pelted with evil-looking rocks. It’s kind of hard to find anything funny right now, and I’m regretting the hasty choice that put Peeta and me in this game.

“Dodgers,” the Game Master addresses us, tapping his chin. “It’s your job to fuckin’ dodge these big ass rocks. If you get hit, you’re out and you lose your loot. If you somehow, by some goddamn miracle, avoid getting destroyed by a rock, then you’re safe. Now, here’s the really good part- if you catch a thrower’s rock, you get their shit and they’re out of the game. But!” He pauses for effect. “You have the option of staying in the game and trying to catch more rocks. More rocks equal more prizes. But if you get tagged, you lose whatever loot you’ve already won _and_ whatever you put up for trade. Get it?”

We all nod.

“I wanna hear you fuckin’ say it. Repeat after me: ‘Yes, Game Master!’”

“Yes, Game Master!” everyone screams. _Except me._ I peer between two broad bodies. _And Peeta._

“All right!” He claps his hands together. “Let’s get this show on the road.” He shades his eyes and looks around the circle, his eyes resting on Peeta. He looks at me, smiles, and then looks at Glimmer. “You!” He points at her. “You’re first.”

_FYI, I’m screwed._

She preens and cocks her hip, tossing one of her rocks in the air for added effect. Her green eyes flick back and forth, and I know it’s all for show because her gaze keeps tripping up on me, finding my slice of body that is visible between the crush of bodies in the circle. But then, the crowd around me becomes sparser, and everyone seems to be cottoning to the fact that Glimmer is out to get one person.

Me.

She swings her head and pulls back her arm, looking at a girl who put up a pair of underwear for trade. To have an extra pair is a luxury indeed, but I know without a doubt that it’s a bait and switch, a move to trick me into a false sense of security. She twists her body, and sure enough, a giant rock hurtles through the air toward me after she changes direction. There’s almost nowhere to run, and when a large boy at least three times as wide as me boxes me in, I know that no one is helping anyone out in this game.

I have no choice. I turn my body, hold out my hand and pray for a miracle. Indescribable pain shoots through my hand and down my arm, and I gasp out loud.

I have the rock. Screams and shouts of excitement break out, and I think I hear Johanna yelling my name. I’d smile if my hand didn’t feel like it was about to fall off. I check my palm and see two nasty cuts there, blood welling to the surface of the wounds and running down toward my wrist.

“You’re out!”

“I can’t believe this!” Glimmer shrieks, stomping her foot. The crowd _boos_ at her attitude and she flips them off, spinning in a circle. “That wasn’t- I should get another try!”

“Didn’t you hear the rules, ya fucking gash? That tiny girl over there tagged you out and now you’ve lost your shit.” The Game Master peers down at the floor beneath the table where our names are listed in chalk. “I hope you weren’t attached to those candy bars.”

Glimmer growls under her breath and casts a baleful glance around the circle when the other players chuckle at her misfortune. She turns and stalks away, kicking her extra rock across the floor for good measure. 

Peeta looks at me briefly, his lips pulled back in the semblance of a smile. I bask in his approval until a rock sails over my head and pelts a girl with long, red hair on the side of the head. She drops much like the stone that hit her, and the Hive explodes with excited yells. I barely have a moment to watch with shocked eyes as a few of the Game Master’s lackeys drag her out of the circle, the dark smear trailing behind her body distracting me when another rock enters the circle. The game is moving faster now, and I twist to the side, a heavy stone almost nailing me in the hip.

“Pay attention!” Peeta mouths at me, finally capturing my attention. I nod, the move sharp, and I spend the next few minutes dodging and tucking and lunging away from stones, not taking the risk of trying to catch another one. My hand throbs from Glimmer’s rock, and streams of blood are still leaking from my hand at a steady but sluggish pace. I try to tune out the damage being done to my fellow dodgers— the boy who is stabbed in the eye with the corner of a rock, the tall girl who’s cracked in the knee and can barely walk out of the circle on her own, and Woof, crying actual tears after he’s hit in the crotch with a stone half the size of my head.

But I’m still in the game, and somehow, when it’s Peeta’s turn, there’s only two of us dodgers that are left in the circle.

He eyes me and cocks his arm back. I prepare myself for a world of pain, my hand already throbbing. I’ve just decided to let him hit me rather than attempting to catch the rock when the boy beside me does a full body lunge, his arm outstretched. My mouth drops, but not because the boy doesn’t catch the rock. No, it hits him in the chest instead.

And now I’m in a circle of seventeen throwers, all bearing rocks with my name practically written on them.

I don’t have time to watch as Peeta slams his hand into the back of the boy who tried to catch the rock that was meant for me. Instead, I meet the apologetic eyes of Thresh, who winds his thick arm back and lets loose a stone the size of my hand. I put out my hands in an unconscious effort to block myself, and I scream when the rock slices the already jagged cuts on my palm. My hands wrap around it, and I can’t even be thankful of the catch because the lip of an open wound on my hand has caught on the edge of the rock. I’m dripping blood everywhere, and the sheer volume of noise in the arena has me completely off-kilter. I stumble backward, and a rock whizzes by the skin of my nose.

Oh. yeah. There’s a game.

 _FYI, I’m scewed, screwed, screwed_.

“Open your damn eyes, Brainless!” I hear Johanna scream somewhere to my left. It’s good advice, as the game has taken on a fevered pitch.

I drop to the my knees, and then roll to the left, and I’m in a completely different world as I spend what is most likely only a few minutes, but feels like hours, dodging over a dozen rocks. If I get out of this with my eyes and brains intact, I’ll never, ever question Peeta’s judgement again.

And finally, it’s Peeta’s turn. I’m panting from the exertion of avoiding the throwers’ aim, and my hand is a complete wreck. Besides Thresh’s rock, I’ve managed to catch one other person’s, and I don’t even know what the prize is. I don’t even care.

I stare at Peeta, my chest heaving. He looks back at me, his lips downturned as he glares at my dripping hands. He drags his eyes up to mine, a hard question on his face.

I nod, and he takes aim. It’s neither a soft nor brutal throw, and he doesn’t make it easy on me. But I catch the rock. I feel like I have to, like something is at stake that’s bigger than him, or me. I let loose a gasp that’s more pain-filled than a scream, and by the time the rock has dropped to the floor, Peeta has made his way over to me.

I cup his face with my bloody hands, and he kisses me.

“You won,” he says against my lips. I nod frantically, and he pulls me closer.

“Holy shit!” The Game Master is crowing somewhere behind us, pumping his fist. “The tiny one just destroyed all you fuckers. Losers, pay up. Winners, collect your shit.”

Peeta sighs against my hair and leans back. “You’re rich,” he says, struggling to be heard over the noise of the Hive. I stare at his scarred face, still so handsome despite my bloody hand prints marring his skin. “Candy bars, a pack of cigarettes, and back-up from Thresh. Not a bad haul for your first time.” He eyes me almost playfully. “Your _only_ time.” He goes to hold my hand and frowns when I pull away with a wince. “Shit, your hands. We have to wrap those up. Let’s get your stuff and-”

“Hold on.”

He turns back toward me and raises an eyebrow.

I continue, taking a deliberate but shaky step toward him, “I still have one more prize.”

Peeta looks confused for a moment, and then his expression clears as he searches my face. “You know you already have me,” he says, voice low. “But you’re right. Tell me what you want.”

I’m aware of the curious eyes on us, and the stack of prizes that await me at the Game Master’s table a few feet away. But the only spoil of war that I’m interested in is the one in front of me, and I don’t know if it’s the blood loss, or the high of victory, or just plain stupidity, but I know what I want.

Gently, but firmly, I put one ruined palm on his shoulder and push down. His nostrils flare with understanding, and Peeta obediently drops to his knees in front of me.

“Lick me,” I tell him, my eyes calm and my hands bleeding.

He pushes my make-shift dress up my hips and cups the back of my legs, close to where the crease of my ass meets my thighs. He presses a kiss to my bruised, scratched legs, and nuzzles his nose into the center of me.

And then this big, scarred boy— the most feared inmate at FYI— services me in front of the entire godforsaken prison, my bloody hands staining his blond hair red as I push his face between my legs.

“Oh, fuck,” someone murmurs. It’s so quiet in the Hive that even their stunned whisper is heard. “Goddamn.”

“Shh,” someone says.

I tilt my head back and hiss when Peeta nips and sucks at my clit, and my body starts to shake from pleasure and latent adrenaline and a mix of other emotions that pull me closer to an orgasm.

I reach back blindly and grab onto table that’s behind us, the rough cement digging into my lower back nothing compared to the pain of my hands, but it all fades away with every kiss and lick of Peeta’s determined mouth. The growing cries of approval from the crowd, the shocked and lustful eyes of the other inmates, and the old, shame-filled Katniss that’s still somewhere inside of me are pushed aside in lieu of the power of having Peeta Mellark on his knees in front of me.

“Come,” I feel more than hear him mumble into my flesh. His tongue swipes me in long, languid licks that turn into more frantic pulls on the sensitive nub of my clit. “C’mon, Katniss.”

And I do. I come on his face, and I would have collapsed onto the floor if he hadn’t risen to his feet and pulled me up and into his arms.

“Keep her winnings safe,” he tells a stunned Johanna as we pass. His chin is still wet from going down on me, and I almost reach up to wipe off his glistening skin until I remember my hands are a bloody horror show. People reach out to give me high fives before pulling back with hasty eyes; they tell me how _awesome_ , _badass_ and _holy shit what was that_ _you’re a fucking legend_ I am, but I barely register their words.

“I’m sorry.” I drop my forehead to Peeta’s chest as we move up the stairs. His arms tighten around me. “I don’t- I don’t know why I did tha-”

He sighs and bends his head at an awkward angle to kiss me. I taste myself on his lips.

“Shut up,” he says, opening the cell door after a moment of struggle between balancing me and the key he retrieves from his pocket.

Peeta carefully stands me up in front of the sink and holds my hands underneath the stream of water. He looks at my face through the mirror, and I lean back against his chest, suddenly filled with all the exhaustion I hadn’t allowed myself to feel during the Game.

Once my hands are clean, he rips away a strip of material from his shirt.

I protest, half-hearted even to my own ears. “I can do it.”

He shakes his head and leads me to sit on the edge of the bed, crouching down in front of me. “Let me fix you,” he says, and I allow it. Peeta’s big hands are so, so careful as he wraps the cloth around my torn, ragged palms. He smooths the strips into careful layers, and then kisses the tops of my hands.

I stare at the dried blood in his golden hair. “You’re always taking care of me.”

He grunts and looks up at me, but doesn’t reply. Instead, he wraps his arms around my waist and presses his head into my stomach. My hand tentatively rests on his back, but then he pulls away as quickly as he hugged me. He walks to the sink and fills a cup before coming back to me.

“Take one of these,” he finally says, sitting next to me. He holds a pill out from his pocket and pops it into my mouth, followed by a sip of water.

I blink at him with tired eyes. “Thank you.”

We sit side by side in silence, and I lean into him heavily, my eyes closing half-way. I just want to _sleep_ , but I startle when the lights go out a moment later.

“The guards must be back.” My head drops onto Peeta’s shoulder. “Do you think-”

“Katniss,” he says, stilted. “I think—I love you.”

I lift my head and stare at him, trying to make out his features in the dark.

“You don’t have to say anything. I just need you to know…” His voice is rough, like each word is being forcibly pulled from his lungs. “You scared the hell out of me tonight. I never want to feel like that again.” Peeta’s arm goes around my shoulders, and he pulls me so tightly against him that it almost hurts. “You-”

The cell door opens, and we both jump to our feet when a familiar guard steps into the room.

“Mellark,” Officer Odair says, sounding harassed. He turns and looks over his shoulder quickly before facing us again. “You’re being released. _Now_.”

“What?” Peeta blinks at him with incomprehension.

“You heard me.” He makes a motion with his hands. “Get whatever is important to you. They’re on their way for you.”

“No. That doesn’t make sense.” Peeta looks down at me and then back up at Finnick, shaking his head in violent denial. He steps backward, his hand reaching for mine before he remembers my wounds. His fingers hover in the air before balling into a fist at his side. “It’s too soon.”

“Listen. Damn, this is…your father died,” he says bluntly, an apology in his voice. My hand flies to my mouth in shock. I didn’t know Mr. Mellark well. He was always kind to Prim and me, but now that I know about the abuse he let his son endure, I’m finding it difficult to summon much sorrow. “There’s no one left to run the bakery in your district, and it’s got a contract with the Capitol. You were fast-tracked, Mellark. I came to warn you because of your girl.” Finnick gives Peeta a grim, meaningful look.

He inhales sharply, a shaky sound. “Odair,” Peeta says, stepping forward and grabbing his shoulder. He sounds as panicked as I’ve ever heard him. “Please. If this is true, you have to watch over her. You fucking _owe_ me.”

Finnick nods and pulls away, backing out of the cell. “I’ll do what I can,” he says shortly. “I’ve got to go. They’re coming for you.” He jerks his chin. “I’d say I’m happy for you, but...” He gives me a quick glance. “Good luck out there, Mellark.”

Then he’s gone.

Peeta turns to me, his eyes ticking back and forth as he talks in short, clipped bursts. “Listen to me,” he says, his pupils fat and black. “It helps you won tonight. People will respect you for a while. But it’s not going to last forever. You’ll have to do things-” He exhales and closes his eyes. “Goddammit! I don’t want to leave you. I can’t-” He stops and we both stiffen when the glow of flashlights appear, followed closely by the sound of voices. “Katniss, please, I- here, take the key.” He shoves it into my hand, and tears spring to my eyes when it jabs my tender palm. “Don’t forget about cell checks. Remember Thresh owes you. You won his prize tonight. Finnick-” The cell door opens, and he talks faster, ignoring the two guards that come in with handcuffs. “He’ll keep you safe,” he says under his breath, pressing his forehead to mine. “Stay alive, Katniss. Please.”

“It’s your lucky day, Mellark,” says the older, heavyset guard, swinging a set of keys. “You’re being released. Your father kicked the bucket and now you have a job to do. Don’t fuck it up.”

Peeta surges forward and kisses me, but then he’s wrenched away by brutal, uncaring hands.

“That’s enough,” the guard guffaws. “Little lovebirds.” He eyes me as the other guard, a younger one with eyes that seem too sharp, too interested in my bare legs, slams Peeta against the wall and slaps a pair of cuffs on him. “Looks like you’re down a roommate, dollface.” He smiles slyly and nudges me. I jerk away. “But I don’t think you’ll have a hard time finding another one.”

“Don’t touch her! Don’t even look at her,” Peeta growls, bucking his body and trying to meet my eyes over his shoulder. “Katniss! I’m coming back for you, okay?”

“This is sweet,” the other guard chuckles, dragging Peeta toward the door.

“Katniss!” Peeta yells, pushing at the guards with his shoulder. His voice grows fainter as they walk him down the stairs. “May eighth. Remember! I’m coming back for you! _May eighth!_ ”

I sit on the floor and rock back and forth, dreading the moment when his shouts fade away.

But then they do, and I’m left alone here in this cell.

I never told him I loved him.

I’m alone. Here. In this hellhole.

And FYI, I’m dead meat.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Natalie for the writing prompt so long ago!
> 
> I'm @badnovels on tumblr. Come hang out.


End file.
